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She’s acting different.

Not loudly. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but I do.

I notice everything when it comes to Elise.

The silences between her words are longer. Her glances shorter. She speaks to me less, touches me even less than that. She eats slowly. Drinks slower. And when she thinks I’m not looking, she stretches in that perfect, lazy way—arms over her head, back arched just enough to make my blood pressure spike. Her shirt rides up. Her breath catches. My teeth clench.

She’s doing it on purpose, and I swear to God, it’s working.

The first time she wore that tighter dress, I nearly lost it. Black, sleek, clinging to every curve like it was tailored to ruin me. She said nothing about it. Just walked in like it was an accident. Sat down across from me, crossed one leg over the other, and let her fingers trace the rim of her wine glass like she didn’t know I was watching.

She knows. She fucking knows.

It’s punishment. A game. Maybe both. She’s jealous and she wants me to feel it—wants to prove something, push me to react. I can see it in the sharp tilt of her chin, in the way she looks through me instead of at me.

This little act of hers is cutting both ways.

Every time I lean in, she pulls away. Every time I reach for her, she turns just enough to let my hand brush her sleeve, her waist, her hair—never her skin.

It’s driving me insane.

I want to grab her by the wrists and pin her against the nearest wall. I want to shove the truth out of her mouth—make her admit what she’s doing. That she hates that woman for being close to me. That she lies awake at night thinking about the things I did to her last week, about the things I could still do.

That she wants me just as much as I want her.

There’s something behind it. Something deeper than jealousy. Her eyes give her away when she thinks I’m not watching—there’s fear in them. Hesitation. Pain. And it’s not all about me . At least, not yet.

She’s hiding something, and I need to know what it is.

So I wait. I watch.

I let her flirt with defiance and pretend it doesn’t bother me, while every second she keeps her distance makes me burn hotter. I let her tug the leash, thinking she’s in control, thinking I won’t snap.

Elise doesn’t understand what she does to me—not really. She thinks she’s getting under my skin like it’s a victory.

She doesn’t realize she’s already under it.

She’s in every breath I take. Every goddamn thought I try to shake off. She’s there when I’m handling Bratva business, blood on my knuckles, and still I’m wondering if she’s curled up in bed without me. If she’s angry. If she’s thinking about leaving again.

She belongs to me. She said so with her mouth. With her body. And still, she slips away like a shadow every time I reach for her.

I can’t have that. I won’t have that.

So I wait. I let her dance. Let her pour another drink with those slow, teasing fingers. Let her look away when I speak. Let her wear the shirts that show too much and dare me to react.

Soon I’ll remind her who she belongs to.

I’ll find out what she’s running from this time. What ghost is still in her head, clawing at her like it deserves space in her mind.

The clock on the mantel ticks louder than it should.

I stare at it while she sits across the room pretending I don’t exist. Her legs are curled beneath her on the chaise, bare skin visible beneath that soft robe she’s so fond of, fingers tucked under her chin as she flips a page in some useless book. She hasn’t read a word in ten minutes. I know because I haven’t looked away from her once.

She knows I’m leaving soon.

That’s part of the performance—cool detachment, like I’m nothing more than a passing shadow. She wants me to believe she’s unaffected. Unmoved.

Unclaimed.

She’s wrong.

The room reeks of her—sweet and sharp, something that lingers even after she’s gone. It clings to my skin more stubbornly than blood ever has. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance up, but she knows I’m watching her. Her lips twitch faintly at the corners when I move, when I reach for my keys, when my hand grazes the lapel of my coat like she expects me to say something, to react.

Let her think she’s winning. Let her think silence is safety, that the smirk she hides behind her glass gives her power. Let her think I’m patient.

She’s forgotten that her silence isn’t a shield—it’s an invitation.

That robe she lounges in so carelessly? It’s mine.

The room she dares to ignore me in? Mine.

The fire in her belly, the heat in her glare, the tremble in her breath when I get too close?

All. Mine.

She can tease me all she wants. Play her little rebellion like she isn’t aching to be pinned down and made to remember exactly who she belongs to.

She’s frustrated. I see it. Angry. I feel it.

But underneath all of that—underneath the sharp tongue and cold stares—is a hunger she doesn’t want to name. It’s in the way she breathes when I pass her. In the tension in her shoulders when I lean close enough to speak against her ear.

It’s killing her. Fuck, if it isn’t killing me too.

I button my coat, watching her from the corner of my eye as I move toward the door. Still no glance. Still no words. Just a flick of the page and the curve of her bare thigh peeking out beneath the robe.

My hand hovers over the doorknob.

When I walk back through that door, she’ll remember what it feels like.

To be mine .

Kolya Sharov doesn’t get ignored.

Especially not by the woman who sleeps in his bed and wears his ring.

My voice is low, deliberate as I speak without turning back. “Don’t wait up.”

I catch the slight pause in her movement—the stiffening of her hand, the way her fingers clench around the book just a little tighter before relaxing again.

***

The warehouse smells like oil and old blood—exactly the kind of place where men like me feel at home. Concrete walls soaked in secrets, metal tables that have seen more flesh than paperwork. It’s cold too, but I prefer it that way. Keeps people sharp. Keeps them from pretending the world is anything but cruel.

Boris is already there when I arrive. Leaning against the hood of one of our blacked-out cars, coat collar up, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me right away, just flicks ash to the ground and exhales.

“He’s late,” I say.

“He won’t be,” Boris mutters. “Viktor’s too much of a coward to keep you waiting.”

I hum low in my throat, the sound of agreement.

Viktor. The roach who’s been slithering too close to our territories for months now. Petty thefts. Subtle manipulation. Men disappearing. He thinks I don’t see it. That I’m too distracted to notice. He’s wrong.

I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to crush him.

Tonight might be that moment.

We step inside the warehouse and head toward the center, where a long steel table waits with chairs lined on one side. A few of my men linger near the walls, all armed, all silent. Boris lights another cigarette, the cherry flare reflecting in his narrowed eyes.

“Any word from the Belarus contact?” I ask.

Boris nods. “They confirmed Viktor’s been paying off port officials. Smuggling through crates marked for us.”

Of course he has.

“He’s sloppy,” I mutter. “Wants to play king, but he can’t even cover his tracks.”

“Still dangerous,” Boris says. “He’s got men. Money. No brain, but plenty of greed.”

I glance toward the door as a car pulls up, headlights cutting through the dark before shutting off. Another moment, then boots on concrete.

Viktor enters flanked by two of his men—jittery types, hands too close to their jackets. I make a point not to sit. Let him look up at me while I stay standing. Let him feel that imbalance before a single word is spoken.

He tries to smile. It looks like something curdled in milk.

“Kolya,” he says, extending a hand I don’t take. “Glad we could meet face-to-face.”

I stare at his hand until he lowers it.

“I hear you’ve been stealing from me,” I say flatly. “My old friend, Yuri. He told me.”

He laughs, too loudly. “Come on. You know how rumors spread. Misunderstandings.”

My smile is thin and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Misunderstanding?”

Boris shifts beside me, arms crossed. “Crates, Viktor. Three of them. Pulled from our route. Labeled for your crew.”

“An error in logistics,” Viktor says quickly. “I was going to reach out—”

I cut him off with a raised hand.

“You’ve made a mistake,” I say quietly. “Several, actually. And I’ve been patient.”

He swallows, eyes darting behind me like he’s calculating escape routes. Cute.

I lean forward slightly. “You’re going to fix it. You’re going to give me names. Every port official, every smuggler, every rat in your little network. And then you’re going to disappear from this city. Quietly.”

His mouth opens, closes.

“I—”

“You don’t speak,” I snap, voice like a blade. “You listen .”

The room goes still. His men inch closer, but mine are faster—guns half drawn, just enough to remind them they’ll die first.

I don’t move. “You think I’m distracted?” I ask. “Think my attention’s been elsewhere?”

Viktor says nothing. He’s smarter than he looks.

“You’re right,” I murmur. “It has been, but I don’t need focus to kill you. I could do it sleepwalking.”

He flinches.

Boris blows smoke toward him. “This is Kolya calm , Viktor. You don’t want to see what he looks like when he’s angry.”

For once, Viktor says the smart thing.

“I understand,” he mutters. “I’ll fix it.”

I nod. “Good.”

We don’t shake hands. We don’t play pretend. He leaves like a dog with his tail between his legs.

Once he’s gone, Boris steps beside me again. “You think he’ll follow through?”

“No,” I say. “He’ll lead us to the rest.”

Boris grins. “Always liked a trail of corpses.”

I check my watch. The meeting took less time than expected. Viktor’s fear did most of the work for me.

Despite the victory, my mind’s not here. It’s already back at the house.

Back in that room, where she was pretending not to care. Where she thought she had the upper hand.

Boris catches my expression. “Still thinking about her?”

I glance at him. “What do you think?”

He chuckles. “She’s a firecracker, I’ll give you that. Never seen anyone make you clench your jaw that much.”

“She’s testing me.”

“She’s winning.”

My glare shuts him up—but not before he smirks again.

“She’s playing games, Kolya. You really gonna let her?”

I flick ash from my sleeve. “She can play all she wants,” I murmur. “But when I walk through that door, she’ll remember exactly who she belongs to.”

Boris doesn’t argue. He knows.